Mirror Image
by Delilah's Soliloquy
Summary: Eileen Prince hated mirrors, because they reminded her of what she could never have. Over the years, her loathing took on different reasons.


_**A/N:** Eileen Prince...I find her a bit of an enigma, as we know so little (canonically) about both her early life and her years as a wife and mother in Spinner's End. Perhaps this is related to her son's pervasive air of mystery, who knows? All I know is that she makes for a fascinating piece of writing now and then. This idea came to me as I saw some nameless character smash a bathroom mirror in frustration on one of my sister's afternoon soaps. I immediately became intrigued with the idea of other people facing their own pain in the mirror. There are other ways to deal with the pain--other than breaking it, of course. Especially if you possess the all-important Slytherin subtlety. _

_Several years ago, it was common practice in my college public speaking class to forewarn us against apologizing in advance for a speech we made. So I am not going to apologize for the shortness of this one-shot, but merely let my readers know that it is just that...short. Brief and to the point. Mere glimpses of moments in other (fictional) people's lives. But I do hope they are enjoyable glimpses. _

_**Disclaimer:** I am not J.K. Rowling. Though I do enjoy playing in her sandbox. _

* * *

Mirror Image

Eileen Prince hated mirrors.

She scowled as she looked surreptitiously at the girls sitting further down the table. They had small, delicate compact mirrors out and were busily applying powder and vivid red lipstick. Eileen wrinkled her nose. Red lipstick may be very much in vogue, but they _were_ Slytherins, and the fact remained that red was just such a blatantly _Gryffindor_ color. They weren't the only ones. All the girls carried compact mirrors.

Eileen had one, too, but she only really looked in it when she was feeling particularly sorry for herself. It was jade; one side contained a small, circular mirror and the other, a powder puff. Eileen snapped open the compact and studied her features with distaste. She wasn't absolutely horrid looking, she reasoned, but she was no beauty queen either. Eileen couldn't bring herself to admit it, but she sometimes wished she could see someone more glamorous and delicate-looking back at her from the small circle of glass. What she saw was a scrawny girl with a thin, pale face, a prominent browline, fathomless ebony eyes and a permanent expression that was simultaneously cross and sullen. Not exactly every boy's dream.

Eileen closed the compact with a disgusted snap and stomped off to class. It wouldn't do for her to be late for Transfiguration just because she was lost in contemplation of her own lack of natural charms—although that sentimental Transfiguration Master, Professor Dumbledore, would probably take pity on her and excuse her the reverie. The man was insufferable.

Eileen Prince hated mirrors, because they reminded her of what she could never have.

* * *

Eileen Snape hated mirrors.

She lifted the looking glass off the wall with a stupendous effort that strained her skinny arms and turned, looking around for a place to stash it. The bedroom, though small, was distinctly underfurnished and therefore afforded few good storage spots. A double bed, a chest of drawers. That was it.

With a sigh of frustration, she pushed the mirror behind the chest of drawers and stepped back to admire the effect. _Good enough,_ she thought. _At least I don't have to look at it._

Having the mirror staring her in the face every time she entered her bedroom was unsettling for Eileen. She grew tired of waking up in the morning to see the violet bruises fading to brown and yellow. She no longer wanted to lie in bed at night, watching the blood on her reflection's busted lip dry and clot as she fought off nightmares. It was simply another reminder of her dismal reality, and _yet another_ household item that could serve as a weapon in _yet another_ household fight. Hanging there in plain sight—it was asking to be broken, really…probably over Eileen's long-suffering back, if she was as unlucky as was usual for her.

"Mummy?" came a voice from the doorway. Eileen's little boy stood there, a skinny child no older than five, who was presently eyeing her in confusion. "_Severus_," she said, walking over to take the child by the hand. "You should be in bed by now—"

"I can't sleep, I'm _hungry_," the child said, a hint of a plea in both his voice and his dark eyes. Eileen felt a twinge of guilt. She had nothing, nothing she could give the kid that could be eaten hurriedly before—

"EILEEN! Where'd you get to? Where the hell's my dinner?" A thunderous, slightly slurred yell came from downstairs and Eileen felt a familiar lurch in the region of her stomach. _Drunk as usual, the no-good bastard, _she thought. At the same time, she felt a sudden pressure around her wrist as little Severus grabbed her hand with both of his. She looked down and shuddered, involuntarily.

She hadn't needed to hide the mirror. Eileen knew exactly what she would see if she looked in it, because her mirror image was reflected in her son's face, in his wide, terrified eyes.

Eileen Snape hated mirrors, because they reflected just how many ways she had failed.

* * *

Severus Snape hated mirrors.

There were never many around the house when he was young and he was never one to fixate much on his appearance, anyway.

What would he see if he looked in, anyway? Sinister black robes? Cold black eyes? His accursed father's unfortunate hooked nose? It was pointless, really. He knew what he'd see—the same thing every time.

But the thing about mirrors that really disturbed Severus wasn't what he knew he _would_ see. It was what he _might_ see. He could never tell if the next time he stood face to face with his reflection, he would finally see the doubt, or the fear that he had worked so hard for so long to conceal. Severus did not want to entertain the possibility that, after so many years, he would look in the mirror and see weakness. He had learned long ago that weakness could not be tolerated.

It was strange, eerie really, how a simple sheet of polished glass could bring back so many discomforting memories—shattered glass, angry yells. The reflection of a smiling girl with shining red hair, looking up at him from the still-sparkling surface of a dingy river. The same reflection, maybe a bit older, this time in a compact mirror, as the girl sat preening for the benefit of a certain smug-faced, black-haired boy. And always, ebony eyes, sometimes damp with tears, sometimes blackened and bruised. The same ebony eyes he saw when _she_ would put him to bed, years ago, accompanied by the whispered apologies and the admonitions to stay very still and _absolutely _quiet, no matter what he might hear.

Severus Snape hated mirrors, because they only brought back bad memories. After all those years, he could look at his mother's pain and knew that, deep inside, he wore the same expression on his matching features. In so many ways, he was her mirror image.

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_**A/N: **Enjoyed it? Didn't enjoy it? Have questions, comments or suggestions? Please, review and let me know! Or just review anyway. Either would be fine. (Though I am hoping that you did enjoy it and are not in fact fervently wishing for the part of your day back, which I unceremoniously snatched from you, never to be regained, with substandard writing...)_

_Oh, well. In the meantime, happy reading (and reviewing--*less-than-subtle hint*). Happy Easter!_

_Cheers, Delilah_


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